Her movements grew rapid. She drew hairpins from the coils and dropped them heedlessly. She shook out her hair and brushed it with nervous vigor; then braided it feverishly, as if some inner emotion might find vent in that simple task.
Time after time she shot glances into the mirror, but in each instance she felt her cheeks burn more fiercely, saw the confused humility increasing in her expression and, finally, her rapid breathing lost its regularity, her lips quivered and her shoulders lifted in a sob. She covered her face with her hands, pressing finger tips tightly against her eyes, struggling to master herself, to bring again that defiant spirit. But she could not; it had gone and she was fighting doggedly against the reaction, knowing that it must come, knowing what it would be, almost terror stricken at the realization.
She paced the floor, stopping now and then, and finally cried aloud:
"She _was_ stealin' him; he _is_ mine!"--as though some presence had accused her of a lie. Again, she repeated the words, but in a whisper; and conviction was not with her.
She sat down on the edge of her bed, but could not remain quiet, and commenced walking, moving automatically, almost dreamlike, distressed, flinging her arms about like a guilt-maddened Lady Macbeth. Each time she passed the mirror she experienced a terrible desire to meet her own gaze again, but she would not, for her own eyes accused her, bored relentlessly into her heart.
"An' I called her a hypocrite," she burst out suddenly, halted, turned and rushed back toward the dresser, straining forward, forcing her gaze to read the soul that was bared before her, there in the mirror.
"You lied to her!" she muttered. "You told her dirty lies; you're throwin' him down. You're killin' her... You ...
She turned away and let the tears come again.
She threw herself full length on the bed. Jealousy had had its inning. All the bitterness that it could create had been flung forth on to the woman who had roused it and then the emotion had died. Strong as it was in Nora, the elemental, the childish, it was not so strong as her loyalty to Bayard's influence and the same thing in her that would have welcomed physical abuse from him now called on her to undo her work of the evening, to strive to prevent his love for Ann from wasting itself, though every effort that she might make toward that end would cause her suffering.